Since Thunderbolts*, I’ve been thinking more and more about Natasha Romanoff’s character journey and how the MCU fumbled so much for her. As much as I want to get into that, at the moment, I’m thinking more about the poignancy in her conversation with Steve. The sadness in the way she eats her sandwich—the proof of her pain in the fact that her hair hasn’t been dyed in five years. I keep thinking about Scarlett Johansson’s performance in those scenes and how she masterfully displays a grief that many of us are all too familiar with these days.
Natasha knows grief more intimately than most because, like her sister, Yelena Belova, she was forced into a place of brutality from a young age. Grief has been with her for a long, long time. She lives in a constant state of it, and she lives with regrets. And it’s clear that so much of it is doubled after Thanos’ snap—tripled when she realizes what Clint’s up to. At this point, those who remain on Earth are simply trying to get by, unsure of how to move forward. The guilt and the heartache are undoubtedly so profound that Natasha doesn’t even process the fact that Okoye is talking about an actual earthquake, as opposed to a threat they could solve.
And that’s sort of what we’re all dealing with these days. Between natural disasters and the heartbreaking state of the world that’s fueled by bigotry and hatred, there are days when my morning coffee tastes like dirt. When you’re watching something that you should be appreciating, but everything hurts so much that you end up crying. So many of us are feeling restless and heartbroken and, in truth, a little (extremely) useless. It feels trivial to write about fiction when I should be doing something else, even though I don’t think I’m capable of doing said things.
For a character like Natasha Romanoff, moving forward is undoubtedly harder because she’s someone who is meant to help. It was her job to protect the Earth, and the belief that she has failed it weighs so heavily on her that all light has been swallowed from her life. The fact that the compound is as dark as it is yet further proof of how she feels internally. Pair all of the external details, such as how the cinematography frames her, with the masterful work Scarlett Johansson does to exhibit that pain, and it’s almost always one of the hardest scenes to watch in the film because of how real it feels.
For the longest time, the MCU treated Natasha/Black Widow as their token female superhero. They seldom gave her the raw, human emotions necessary to layer her until the last two films, when they knew they’d be taking her away from us. Quite frankly, it’s outright unfair. Horrible.
At this point in Avengers: Endgame, every member who’s still alive carries with them the grief and pain for those they’ve lost. They’ve all lost monumental pieces of themselves in a way that they don’t believe they’ll get back. They’re all making failed attempts to move forward, knowing it’s nearly impossible to do so. But the way that Johansson weaves in how the snap has changed Natasha Romanoff is no small feat. It’s taken everything from her.
She can’t focus on herself. She can’t enjoy a basic meal (one that also tends to be nostalgic and healing for so many of us, like a classic PB&J sandwich). She can’t move forward until she does something, and we see all of this so poignantly in a moment that’s meant to be honest and reflective. The fact that the writing even allows a moment of vulnerability, such as the characters discussing their pain, is what’s so important. It’s not always easy to talk—to even utter a word out loud. Yet, Natasha and Steve get to have this moment to showcase how deep it’s all buried within them. Natasha Romanoff’s breakdown, like Yelena Belova’s in Thunderbolts*, reminds us that even the bravest among us fall. And I don’t know—maybe that’s what we all need from time to time to remember that pain is often all-consuming. We aren’t weak if we can’t move forward from it. It can swallow us whole, and no one, not even superheroes, is immune to it.
First Featured Image Credit: ©Marvel